The ancient spacemen rode vibrations.
They were born with beards,
suckling desperately in the fore-
shadow of sports, and sudden death.
Crossing T’s on mis-marked constellations
they knocked our heads,
the grace of their tango staining
our faulty parachutes.
They maimed us one by one
as we knelt in the TV light for cover.
But the kettle sleeps, sometimes.
My hands relearn the softness of cats
and my mouth, the dry
shock of molars on gravel.
Each conception, though, when the sun
reclothes their sexmaps,
I feel the echoed thump
of spacefeet on butter.
ANDREW COLLARD lives in Madison Heights, MI, and attends Oakland University. Recent work can be found online at Word Riot and Ex Fic.